Pivot Point (Pivot Point, #1)(20)

I don’t want him at mine either, and since she’s the one who brought it up, I don’t back down. “I know, but my mom might come home early today and in order to achieve maximum impact, she can’t walk in when my hair is wet.”

“Maximum impact?” Duke says.

“Yeah, she’s rebelling,” Laila tells him.

“Against what?” he asks.

“I’m not sure exactly. Against what, Addie?” Laila asks with a smirk.

“Against unnormalcy. Antiaverageness.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re rebelling against being Paranormal?”

“No, this has nothing to do with abilities. I’m promoting the norm. The cliché. The typical.”

“I’m lost.”

“She thinks if she can check off every item on the list of ‘how the average teen deals with divorce,’ her parents will get back together.”

I glare at Laila, irritated she would share that with Duke. “That’s not true. I don’t think they’re getting back together.” Anymore. “But since they’re getting divorced, I don’t want to miss out on any of the fun experiences that go along with it.” I hold up a strip of hair.

“Ah, man. Your parents are getting a divorce? Sorry, that sucks.”

“Mine and half the other kids’ parents on campus at some point, right? Nothing new or exciting. Just average.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And average is … good?”

“Exactly. See, you’re learning. It’s all about expectations. If you do the typical, you can expect the typical result, no surprises.” In my attempt not to stare at him too much, I have gone from looking at the cloudless sky to a small rock by my hand and now to the vines growing up the building in front of us. They have covered nearly every inch of red brick as they climb their way up the wall, searching for open space.

Duke speaks, bringing my attention back to him. “So you’re acting out against your parents, and what exactly is the typical result of that?”

I lean back on my palms. “Well, before the divorce, my mom would’ve flipped out. I would’ve been grounded and she would’ve taken me to the salon, made them dye it back at my expense.”

“But now?”

“Now she’ll flip out, but because she’ll recognize it for what it is—me begging for love and attention—she’ll tell me she’s disappointed but then take me to a movie or something.”

“Really?” He looks to Laila as if checking to see if I’m serious. When Laila shrugs, he turns back to me. “She’ll reward you?”

“For sure.”

Both he and Laila look doubtful. I assure them with, “You’ll see.”

He hops to the ground, then moves in front of me. Leaning against my legs that are still dangling off the stage, with one hand on either side of my knees, he says, “Sounds exciting. I’ll see you after school then, Blue Eyes.”

I hold back a curse.

“I knew they weren’t brown. I didn’t know you were studying Light Manipulation. I’m impressed. But it takes concentration.” He leans forward slowly until his mouth is inches from my ear. My eyes flutter and I know he heard the gasp of air I took no matter how quiet it was. “You got distracted,” he whispers, then grabs his backpack from behind me and leaves.

“Not by you,” I call after him.

He turns and walks backward for a moment, a wide smile spread across his annoyingly handsome face. He knows I’m bluffing. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders before he pivots and is gone.

“You know I want to kill you, right? Again,” I say to Laila as we sit in her living room waiting for Duke to arrive. “Why would you invite him? You’re making him think I like him or something.”

“You do.”

Her brothers dash by the couch, one chasing the other. They knock into one of the few remaining paintings on the wall, sending it swinging. Five years ago, Laila’s house looked like a page out of a magazine. Now it’s stripped bare. Only the essentials are left.

Laila yells after the boys, “I have company today, so stay caged somewhere until Mom gets home from work.” She stands to straighten the picture. Even though she hides it well, I realize she must be embarrassed. Why did I insist on doing this at Laila’s? I’m a horrible friend.

The doorbell rings, and my heart flips. She raises one eyebrow and skips to the door.

“Duke,” she gushes. “How are you? Come in.”

“I’m good. I brought some supplies.” Out of his back pocket he pulls a pair of elbow-length, bright orange rubber gloves.

“We’re dyeing hair, not scrubbing toilets,” Laila says.

“I thought hair dye was like flesh-eating acid.”

I laugh. “Because then everyone would want to dye their hair.”

“So there isn’t some flesh-burning caveat on the box?”

Laila draws down the corners of her mouth as though she’s impressed. “I think Duke’s been reading hair-dye boxes, Addie, what do you think?”

“Have you been doing your homework?” I ask, standing.

“I didn’t want to look like an idiot, but apparently I didn’t save myself from that fate.”